 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE YOUNG DOCTOR'S WAY IN THE WORLD.
For a time Sally continued to reside with her mother, and
Richard with his, without seeing each other, except by an occasional
interchange of calls. This of course gave rise to much
scandal in the neighborhood, which of all things Mrs. Claverel
most dreaded. Mean time the birth of a daughter gave some
sort of momentary strength to the feeble tie existing between
the young husband and wife.
“Don't you think, Sammy,” said Mrs. Claverel, one morning,
as she took up one of his red flannel shirts to mend, “don't
you think the old speckled cow is getting a little past her
prime?”
It is a much easier thing to fall in with the observation of
another, when we are not particularly interested, than to express
a different opinion, and, without looking up, Mr. Claverel said,
simply, “I don't know but she is.”
After a few minutes of silence, Mrs. Claverel continued, in
pursuance of some train of thought, “Did you see how the
black mare acted this morning?”
Mr. Claverel was deeply engaged in one of Van Buren's
messages, and made no reply; so the good woman went on,
“It seems to me I never saw her act so bad before. It was as
much as David could do to get her started; and when she did
go at last, Tom had the whole of the load to pull. It seems to
me I would sell her along pretty soon, if I saw a good opportunity.
Don't you think so?”
“What is it?” said Mr. Claverel, just beginning to understand
that his wife was talking to him. Then, seeing her occupation,
would just line those sleeves through, from the elbow to the
shoulder. I feel a little of the rheumatis this morning.”
Of course, Mrs. Claverel thought it would be a good plan;
but, before it was accomplished, she managed to make her
meaning perfectly understood.
“It's no use,” said Mr. Claverel, at first; “the speckled cow
is worth twice what she will bring; and as for the mare, I
could not get half the vally of her. Besides, I could not carry
on the farm without her.”
“Why, Sammy, I don't see how she is worth more to you
than to any one else; and Oliver wants to break his colt now,
and then I expect you will have no use for the mare at all.”
“Well, if I could sell them, I don't particularly need the
money. I can sell oats and hay enough to pay my taxes, and
I don't like to part with my critters.”
“I think may be, if Richard had a little start, enough to go
to housekeeping with, he and Sally would try to get along. If
they were in their own house, and had some encouragement to
do, perhaps they might—who knows? Sally has a bed and
bureau, and a half dozen chairs; and if we can give them a little
more, they will manage nicely. It seems a pity, when they
are disposed to do as well as they can, that we should offer
them no countenance.”
Mr. Claverel said nothing. He seemed in a troubled study.
“The baby grows finely,” continued Mrs. Claverel, talking
rather for Mr. Claverel than to him. “I was in there yesterday
for the first time. I didn't much want to go there, but I was
coming by, and Mrs. Bates, she was out in the yard, and so insisted
on my going in just a minute, that I couldn't well get off.
You know it couldn't take me but just a minute, Sammy, and I
thought if it would do them any good, why, it would not do me
any harm, and so I stopped just a little bit.”
There was a long pause after this apologetic speech, which,
the husband not seeming disposed to interrupt it, gave the good
wife an uncomfortable sensation. However, she rallied presently;
and after slipping her hand under the patch, and saying,
“Isn't that thick and warm?” she said, “They want you to
I didn't much expect you'd go, and that you were no hand to go
to any place. They talk of calling the baby Dolly—an old
fashioned sort of name; I should not think they would like it.”
“Better call it Folly,” said Mr. Claverel, at which the wife
laughed, and said she thought so too, though she felt no inclination
whatever to laugh, but wished in some way to put her husband
in good humor, which in some sort she did, though for the
time he seemed much more interested in the message than in
anything which his wife said. A week or two after this conversation,
Mr. Claverel one morning took a pair of old horse-shoes
in one hand, and tying a rope about the neck of Oliver's colt,
set out for Clovernook. He walked slowly, for the refractory
colt—a rough-haired, long-legged, long-tailed, sorrel animal, that
had not yet attained his best development—pulled backward, to
the extent of his halter and neck together.
To reach the blacksmith's, he passed the house of Mr. Bates;
and though he did not turn his head in that direction, he saw at
the window his daughter-in-law, with her baby in her arms.
She saw him, and with her heart softened toward everybody,
with a strange, new feeling, she called him to come in, just a
moment, and see little Dolly. He hesitated a moment, then
tied the colt to the gate-post, and walked straight into the house.
A moment more, and his grandchild was in his arms.
A week or two more, and the sorrel colt, which Oliver called
Democrat, (he was a stout politician, after the order of his
father,) was soberly at work by the side of Tom, and the black
mare and the speckled cow were no longer among the chattels
of Mr. Claverel; and between the old homestead and the village,
Richard had taken up his abode. The house he occupied was a
wooden building, of small size and pretensions; nevertheless,
it had an air of decency and comfort about it. The carpet was
very pretty, as Mrs. Bates thought, the curtains tasteful, and the
other furniture good and useful. The front of the house near
the door was garnished with the sign of “Dr. Claverel,” and
the stable, on the back of the lot, was filled with hay and corn
for Richard's new pony. He intended to commence practice at
once. It was no use, he thought, to study any longer; he knew
and hadn't a regular diploma, and it was not so easy to
make other people believe it. However, baskets of provision,
enough for the consumption of a month, were provided by Mrs.
Claverel and Mrs. Bates, and the young people began to make
their own way in the world.
Richard rocked the cradle while Sally cooked the dinner,
and Sally rocked while Richard saddled his pony and rode
about the neighborhood, as though professionally engaged.
Thus matters went on for a time, but at the end a month, Richard's
riding was still all make-believe. The hay was gone from
the stable, the flour and meat from the larder, the wood required
to be replenished, and fear and anxiety began to usurp
the place of hope and satisfaction.
Daily Richard went backward and forward between his
father's and his own home, bearing a basket of apples or potatoes,
and daily Martha and Jane addressed him as Dr. Claverel,
and inquired, with mock sincerity, after the health of his
patients. “How much do you want?” they would ask sometimes—“a
dollar's worth, or less? we don't do business on the
credit system.” Mrs. Claverel would say, “Come, come!” by
way of reproof, while Richard remained silent from mortification.
The spring brightened into summer, and the half-made garden
was overgrown with weeds, while in-doors a cross baby
cried in the cradle, and the mother, languid and weary of waiting
for the better time, grew more and more dissatisfied, neglecting
the sources of comfort she had, because she had not more.
One morning, after a restless night with the fretful child, she
arose, more languid and disquieted than usual. There was no
fire to prepare breakfast, and no breakfast to prepare; dull,
leaden clouds hung over all the sky; no breath of air stirred
the leaves, among which the spiders were lazily spinning; the
birds twittered feebly and faintly, but there was no joyous outburst
of song. Presently the thunder growled in the far distance,
and rumbled heavily up the sky; the day was going to
be stormy.
Once or twice Sally called her husband to arise, and, if possible,
dozed on, paying no heed to her remarks or advice; and approaching
near where the fire should be, she rocked her baby
to and fro, in a wretched and sullen mood, looking out on the
storm. There was no food, nor fire, nor money in the house.
Neither was there any interchange of kind words, or hopes, or
wishes, to keep alive in their hearts the love that was fast dying
out. At last the noon was come; it grew lighter, and the rain
nearly ceased.
The poor woman could restrain her sorrow and her reproaches
no longer, and once more turning to Richard, asked him if he
intended to leave her to starve to death.
“What would you have me do,” he said: “go out in this
storm and ask charity? I have no heart and no hope—nothing
but a discontented and reproachful wife,
`Would that I were dead before thee!' ”
Tears followed on her part; then bitterer reproaches; then
harsh words from each to each; and then sullen silence and
dogged resolves. Toward sunset, with her baby in her arms,
and tears in her eyes, Sally set out in the rain for home, while
Richard remained in the desolate and deserted house—wretched,
very wretched.
The sun went down; the rain fell on and on; without and
within, all was dark, and the heart of Richard was darkest of
all. He was hungry, though he scarcely felt that; but weary
of himself and of the world, the hours dragged slowly by. All
day he sat perfectly still, with his arms folded across his bosom,
and his eyes bent on the ground. At last he arose, pacing restlessly
from side to side of the little room, beginning a train of
reflection sometimes with, “I might do better if I would,” but
invariably ending with, “I would do better if I could.” Violent
feelings of joy or pain must exhaust themselves at last, and
the tumult in the bosom of the young man at length gave way
to the settled calmness of despair. After a search of some
minutes, he succeeded in finding the remnant of a tallow candle,
by the light of which he read the miserable conclusion of the
sorrowful story of Chatterton; but he gathered no courage from
the city inquiring for him.” He only said it was better that he
should die than live. An evil sign was in his house of life,
which only the shadow of the grave could sweep away; and to
die was to give the echo of his name to the world. So, the
long night, in darkness and silence, he mused.
The next morning, haggard and worn and hungry, he returned
to his father's house, and his mother listened patiently
and lovingly to the old story: his wife had cruelly deserted
him, depriving him of the solace of his child; in fact, she had
been unkind and unprovident from the first; and had she remained,
her conduct might ultimately have broken his heart.
So wretched and helpless and hopeless he looked, that even his
father was softened, and forbore to reproach, if he did not soothe
and encourage. He was resolved to give up his profession, for
he had neither the tact nor the talent for its prosecution; he
would come back home, and assist his brothers in the cultivation
of the farm. Agreeably to this resolve, Democrat and
Tom were harnessed to the market-wagon, and the goods belonging
to the husband were separated and removed from those
belonging to the wife. The sign was taken down, and though
Richard was careful to deposit it where it would neither be
seen by himself nor any one else, as he thought, Martha and
Jane, in some of those mysterious searches of which children
are so fond, would sometimes bring it to light, and, tacking it
to the door of his room, hide in some neighboring nook to
watch his coming, and laugh over his surprise and mortification.
After a few days of pretty energetic endeavor to be useful,
Richard began to relapse to his former apathy and indifference.
Sometimes he would sit in his chamber and read his old medical
books, sometimes he mounted his pony and rode about the
neighborhood, no one knew for what, nor do I think he knew
himself.
Meantime, rumor became current that Mr. Bates was about
to sell out and move to town—a rumor which had confirmation
in the bills posted in front of the Clovernook Hotel, and the
principal grocery store, as also on the graveyard fence, and the
gate-posts of Mr. Claverel, at one extremity of the village, and
letters, that there “would be sold at public vendue, on the
first of August, at the house of Mr. Bates, all the following
property, viz., three milch cows, one patent churn, with a lot of
dairy ware and family crockery; two feather beds, picked from
Mr. Bates's own geese, and warranted prime; one bureau, one
breakfast table, and half a dozen chairs. Also, two draught-horses,
one fanning mill, one plough, with a great variety of
farming and household utensils, too numerous to mention.”
Mrs. Bates had asserted, as it was reported, that she could
not live in the same neighborhood with the Claverels. So, in
course of time, fanning mill and feather beds, milch cows and
breakfast table, were disposed of, and Mr. Bates and family
moved to the city, and opened a boarding-house for tailors,
milliners, and errand-boys—Sally chiefly doing the honors, and
her mother the work. The children were thus deprived of the
fresh air, and free, healthful exercise, to which they had been
accustomed; their simple and comfortable clothing was abandoned
for something like other children's, more expensive than
they could afford, and more fashionable than durable or agreeable.
Consequently, they became, as their mother thought, very much
improved; that is, they had, in place of full, dimpled cheeks,
and rosy arms, and flowing hair, a paler and more delicate
complexion, and broad, white pantalettes, and long braids hanging
down their backs, liberally ornamented at the ends with
very bright ribbons. As for the boys, I can't describe the buttons,
and tassels, and shining belts, that set them off; but it
was all over-strained, and not precisely the right thing; nor
could they learn to feel as much at case as in their loose trowsers
in the hay-field. The city air and the neglectful mother
didn't agree with the baby, and on the cushion of the rocking-chair
she lay, fretting by the hour, or falling over the shoulder
of a nurse-girl, not old enough nor strong enough to support
her; or was carried from place to place, with her skirts of
two yards in length trailing to the ground. The name of Dolly
was abandoned or metamorphosed to Dora. Poor little baby,
its name was never written, even on its tombstone; and what
availed the change, for the summer was not gone till its languid
few natural tears, a vacuum for some days, and then the white
lace that edged its long dresses served to set off the mourning
of the young mother. Peace to the unknown little child, fallen
asleep in innocency, to wake in the bosom of the Good Shepherd.
It had no need of torture to be made pure. The firecrown,
and the worm that never dies, are not for those over
whom sounds ever the sweet music, “Suffer them to come
unto me, and forbid them not.” Away under the sun-set
clouds, neglected and sunken, is the grave which the ill-starred
father never saw, and about which the hands of the mother
planted no flowers
I marvel, sometimes, when I see mothers who will not be
comforted, mourning for the deaths of their children. They
forget that the beauty of immortal youth is theirs; they forget
the fullness of sorrow that is in the world; the moaning that
runs through the universe, since the downward beating of the
starry wings of Lucifer brought the echoes from below.
Sooner or later we grow weary, and covet for our bleeding
feet and broken hearts the comfort of the grave; for life has no
good unmixed with evil. The laurel twines itself only about
haggard and aching brows; under the flame that streams across
the centuries lie the gray ashes of all dearest hopes; the
great waves of despair beat ever against the citadel of joy,
until we are glad to fold the darkness about us, and go down to
the narrow house, there, at least, to rest. No troubling dream
disturbs the pillow, no necessity to labor or to wait, calls us
away from the quiet, to front, with fainting and failing powers,
the terrors of adverse destiny. The morning goes, and comes
again, and again, but visits our eyelids with no unwelcome
light. The sobbing rains of the spring-time beautify with flowers
the covering that is over us, the dry leaves of autumn drop
down, and the white snows of winter settle over the grave
mound like the sheet over the newly dead; but to the pale
sleepers it is all the same, for there is no work, nor device, nor
wisdom, nor knowledge, in the grave. For myself, many that
I have loved have gone from me to return back no more. The
golden curls of childhood, the dark, heavy tresses of mature
from my eyes by the shroud-folds; but among them all there
is not one that I would summon to take up again the burden of
life. Were they here, my weakness might fasten itself upon
their strength, and my lagging footsteps hold them back from
the aims of ambition, the reward of endeavor.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |